“She must be.”

“Miss Dale, do you say?”

“I do, Papa.”

Dr Middleton regained his natural elevation from the bend of body habitual with men of an established sanity, paedagogues and others, who are called on at odd intervals to inspect the magnitude of the infinitesimally absurd in human nature:  small, that is, under the light of reason, immense in the realms of madness.

His daughter profoundly confused him.  He swelled out his chest, remarking to Willoughby:  “I do not wonder at your scared expression of countenance, my friend.  To discover yourself engaged to a girl mad as Cassandra, without a boast of the distinction of her being sun-struck, can be no specially comfortable enlightenment.  I am opposed to delays, and I will not have a breach of faith committed by daughter of mine.”

“Do not repeat those words,” Clara said to Willoughby.  He started.  She had evidently come armed.  But how, within so short a space?  What could have instructed her?  And in his bewilderment he gazed hurriedly above, gulped air, and cried:  “Scared, sir?  I am not aware that my countenance can show a scare.  I am not accustomed to sue for long:  I am unable to sustain the part of humble supplicant.  She puts me out of harmony with creation—­We are plighted, Clara.  It is pure waste of time to speak of soliciting advice on the subject.”

“Would it be a breach of faith for me to break my engagement?” she said.

“You ask?”

“It is a breach of sanity to propound the interrogation,” said her father.

She looked at Willoughby.  “Now?”

He shrugged haughtily.

“Since last night?” she said.

“Last night?”

“Am I not released?”

“Not by me.”

“By your act.”

“My dear Clara!”

“Have you not virtually disengaged me?”

“I who claim you as mine?”

“Can you?”

“I do and must.”

“After last night?”

“Tricks! shufflings! jabber of a barbarian woman upon the evolutions of a serpent!” exclaimed Dr. Middleton.  “You were to capitulate, or to furnish reasons for your refusal.  You have none.  Give him your hand, girl, according to the compact.  I praised you to him for returning within the allotted term, and now forbear to disgrace yourself and me.”

“Is he perfectly free to offer his?  Ask him, papa.”

“Perform your duty.  Do let us have peace!”

“Perfectly free! as on the day when I offered it first.”  Willoughby frankly waved his honourable hand.

His face was blanched:  enemies in the air seemed to have whispered things to her:  he doubted the fidelity of the Powers above.

“Since last night?” said she.

“Oh! if you insist, I reply, since last night.”

“You know what I mean, Sir Willoughby.”

“Oh! certainly.”

“You speak the truth?”